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Thursday, June 17, 2004
8W On A Mission, Volume TwoThe glory from my apotheosis as reigning wunderkind of "Game of Life" flagged under such circumstances as losing three consecutive games to kids all around the age of ten. Admittedly having no real intellectual avocation to prove that I'm not an idiot, I decided that maybe I'm just really, really strong. Of course, things like needing my mother to open jars of spaghetti sauce for me makes one disbelieve this theory, but I blame it on vacuum sealing mechanisms and not having done my proper stretches prior to my attempts. Properly handled in a court of details, I could very well be somewhat below average in terms of wrist strength and dextrous metacarpus; however, whether my arms themselves don't hold untapped potential capable of the most Brobdingnagian of proportions, though improbable, is not out of the question. With this confidence, I decided to arm-wrestle several people at a bar in New York City. Arm-wrestling is, as we all know, the perfect medium to contest several men larger than you with the means of brute strength -- other than fighting, which has your face looking a little brute if you lose. But none of the guys at my table would arm-wrestle me. I like to think this is because I strike an imposing threat everywhere I go, but if that were true, I wouldn't get away with ordering from the Kid's Menu that easily. It turned out the guys at my table, being six feet tall or over, simply didn't want to hurt, what they called, my 'cello hand'. I resent this, of course. Suddenly I felt like I was majoring in flower-arranging. One of them suggested I arm-wrestle a girl first. If there are any feminists reading this site, you must understand that the very concept of girls being weaker than guys is not at question here; it's more whether I'm stronger than a three-month-old baby with a cold. But, being in a bar, they weren't readily available. Anyway, as luck would have it, though potentially devastating to my reputation, I was very happy when they chose for me a fellow musician, a female clarinetist, who was asian and three years my junior. I knew I had made a mistake when we both went at it and nothing happened. We were dead-locked. Everyone thought I was trying to hustle them into believing that I was really that weak. I tried to play the part, but inside -- inside, I was peeing my metaphorical pants. This girl was like Xena. Slowly, my inevitable loss dawned on me, and, clearly from a forgiveable shot of panic-stricken adrenaline passed down from my ancestors being chased by wild tigers, my left hand hovered in the air, in such a way as to hint that I might just start punching her in the face until she let me win. Seeing my rippling tendons -- I'd say muscles, but this is a true story -- my friends started staring in disbelief, saying things like, "Yo, I think he's really trying, man." Soon, I found the back of my hand resting, against its wishes, on the dirty grime of the table, and the unmistakable scent of shame was in the air. Either that or my pants aren't that metaphorical. You don't know how good it feels, trying to find more girls to arm-wrestle in hopes of vindicating yourself. They found another willing opponent, as they were suddenly popping up everywhere. Money was riding on her winning and I realized that I was now the underdog to an even smaller Japanese girl, no more than five feet tall, and weighing, by my estimate, three pounds. I gave it all I got. She didn't really stand a chance because not only was she up against my fervor for redemption, I was also cheating. I put all my 160 pounds into my arm and, in a matter of seconds, I had slammed her tiny little hand onto the table, causing me to roar with victorious excitement: "WHAT! WHAT YOU GON' DO!! I'M TOP DOLLAR BABY! (Pointing at biceps) These things are UNSTOPPABLE!" Only at that moment did I realize how this scene must have looked to unsuspecting passerby: A cocky little bully ballooning his own strength by demolishing tiny girls who are half his size in arm-wrestles. That's when I noticed five guys with forearms the size of salted hams glaring in my direction. Without making this admittedly long post longer still, I had to lose a few more arm-wrestles that night. The bildungsroman that is "8W On A Mission" won't stop until I try to Lance Armstrong my mountain bike this Saturday, and go to Gold's Gym with my boys. You have to admit that my legs had nothing to do with arm-wrestling. Properly handled in a court of details, my untapped potential may now rest solely on my calves. 
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